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survivor of The House of Special Purpose. In Investigator Sokolov’s book, however, I was just the kitchen boy, as I have been all these years to the historians. The insignificant kitchen boy. And that is exactly how the
Bolsheviki
saw me as well – harmless! – which is why they decided to move me to the Popov House just hours before the Tsar and his family were killed.
    Of course it’s true that the Heir’s doctor, Dr. Derevenko, was the only one to come and go, but that’s not to say others weren’t allowed out of The House of Special Purpose for specific tasks. Namely, me. On the main floor of the house we only had a makeshift kitchen where a few things were prepared. Everything else was prepared for us a few blocks away at the local Soviet of Workers’ Deputies. And who did they send once or twice every single day to pick up the
solyanka
and
kotletti
, their soup and meat cutlets? The
komendant
himself?
Konechno, nyet
! Of course not. They sent me, the kitchen boy, that’s who! They sent little Leonka, they did!
    So I said to the Tsar, I said, “Nikolai Aleksandrovich, once or twice a day I am allowed to go to the soviet for your food. And once or twice a day I pass the church there. Perhaps…”
    The Tsar, the Tsaritsa, and the doctor each saw the simple logic of it all. They knew me, they trusted me. To them it was a beautiful plan – that their kitchen boy, who the whole world would forever overlook, should be their secret courier. And I think we would have succeeded. We nearly did, actually, we very nearly did. Over the next few weeks we received a total of three additional secret notes, and I carried a total of three replies. The replies to three of the four notes. We very nearly succeeded in saving the Romanovs, and we would have, I truly believe we would have, if only…
    Oh, I was so young. And they were such awful times. In short, I must confess that I did something very foolish. Would that I could change one thing… just that one small thing. Oh, such a mistake I made!
    Gospodi Pomilooi
– the Lord have mercy – the Romanovs all died because of me.

4
    But again, I anticipate. Forgive me, my dear granddaughter, there’s simply so much I wish to tell you.
    Back then, during the horrible times of the revolution, Yekaterinburg and the Ural Mountains were a real hotbed of Red activity. The Red Urals, that was how it was known, and this was the worst place for Nikolai and his family. Nikolashka, that was how the
Bolsheviki
so disrespectfully called him. The Blood Drinker. The Blood Sucker. The Number One Capitalist.
    And there we were in that fateful house.
    “Crammed in like herring in a barrel,” laughed the Tsar one evening.
    The
Bolsheviki
were constantly afraid that the Tsar would try to signal someone on the outside, which is why the windows were painted over with lime and we weren’t allowed to open a single one of them. It was like being surrounded by thick fog. Only the very top pane was left untouched, and through that you could see daylight. As a matter of fact, you could also see a bit of the Church of the Ascension across the square.
    “At least we can see the top of the church tower,” the Empress said any number of times. “At least they haven’t taken that away from us.”
    What still surprises me most was how well the Tsar and his family coped, how easily they accepted their imprisonment. Maybe Nikolai understood that his fate was to be a martyr tsar. Perhaps. But toward the end, during those last few weeks, he grew terribly depressed, for he saw how much worse things had become. I think he was beginning to realize his mistakes, that all of this could have been avoided if he’d only made a few simple concessions.
    And yet they were a kindly family, those royals. During those last months and even last weeks I recall no outbursts among the family members, no screaming or tantrums. There was no fighting, not even among the children. And never once did I hear a raised voice